


Why can't you be blue over me?

by Zarigueya



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Crush at First Sight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mc76 Week, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Unrequited Love, previous r76
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarigueya/pseuds/Zarigueya
Summary: The first time he saw him was on a poster, one of the hundred plastered across the streets of Santa Fe: the strike commander, Jack morrison in all his blue glory, golden wheat hair and piercing blue eyes.*Day 5 & 6 of Mc76 week: Hurt and sleep





	Why can't you be blue over me?

Mccree kicks the door open, hands busy holding a cup of coffee and a plate with sunny side up eggs, bacon and toast. A smile pulling from his lips when he notices, despite the lack of light, the shape under the sheets that stirs with the sound of his voice.

 

“I brought breakfast.”

 

The first time he saw him was on a poster, one of the hundred plastered across the streets of Santa Fe, the city where he was born and grew up. It was a pretty colorful poster with a breathtaking photo of “Los Protectores”, the heroes of the world against the omnics. Back then Mccree was just a young rascal who barely could see over the muzzle of his gun, growing on the streets. That’s when he first saw him, his face on a poster, the strike commander Jack morrison in all his blue glory, golden wheat hair and piercing blue eyes.

 

The same man that rests on his bed, face pressed against his pillow, groaning when Mccree open the curtains.

 

“Leave me alone.”

 

Mccree laughs, sits on the bed next to him, resting a warm hand over his shoulder. “It’s high noon already, Jack.” he purrs, gently rubbing his hand over his back. “At least eat somethin’.”

 

The mention of food seems to work more than his caresses —nothing to be surprised about—. Jack slowly lifts from the bed, supporting his weight on the palm of his hands, head hanging heavily. The sheets slip from his shoulders, leaving at sight the scars across his back. He turns around, sitting against the several pillows on the head of the bed and stretching out his limbs and neck.

 

Like a lazy silver fox waking up after a long sleep.

 

What was Jack Morrison doing on his bed? To being with, he was supposed to be dead. Mccree assisted to the funeral, and Reye’s one. He cried real tears —alone, hiding on his room— when they told him the damage has been so severe they couldn't even recover his body. Sleepless nights followed the funeral, and brought him to eventually departing from Overwatch and go back to the streets where they first picked him.

 

The bounty hunter life was hard; dirty highways and lonely nights, always looking over his shoulder, drifting, feeling out of place anywhere he went.

 

The pain has been real, the longing as well.

 

Then one night he finds that old man on the roads, severely injured, clothes dampened in blood. The same man on the wanted posters, with a bounty as heavy as his own.

 

_Jack?_

 

The passing years did little to his face, which made easy for Mccree to tell it was Jack Morrison the one under the mask.  If it wasn’t because the scar on his face or his blonde hair fading to gray, Mccree would swear he was in front of the same old commander Morrison.  

 

“I had no idea you could cook.”

 

“‘course I do.” he arches his eyebrows, grinning “There’s a bunch of stuff you don’t know about me.”

 

“I bet.” Jack sips from the coffee, careful not to burn his tongue, completely uninterested in what Mccree has to say. Mccree doesn’t mind, he is busy watching the way Jack drinks, holds the fork, his lips part, mouth moves when he chews and _swallows_.

 

A Jack Morrison made of flesh and blood.

 

_He is alive, he is alive, he is alive..._

 

* * *

 

The place that Mccree initially rented for a couple of days became his temporary home, a place where he could shelter Jack and take care of him. He had to ask for a kitchen, a place where he could cook homemade food, had to fill a refrigerator and give up living from canned food and cheap bourbon. Jack doesn’t seem aware of the adjustments Mccree had to do to take care of him, doesn’t show any emotion, staring at the empty space or listening to Mccree singing along some old tunes playing on the radio. Mccree also spends an hour or two helping Jack stretch his legs, to avoid a permanent damage on his limbs. 

 

“Jack.”

 

“What?”

 

“Ain’t you telling me what happened?”

 

Jack gives him the same look he gave him when he first woke up and Mccree knows he won’t speak. It initially took Jack several days to regain consciousness and another day for him to finally say something. Mccree first though he didn’t recognize him, later Jack would confess he did, but he thought he has gone mad: a phantom doesn’t expect to meet an old acquaintance.

 

The true is, if Jack could, he would have left already. Mccree can see it on his dull blue eyes that look through him instead of at him. Everytime Mccree leaves to bring food or anything he fears coming back to an empty room.

 

The thought of _tie him_ to the bed crossed his mind.

 

“There will be time for that.”

 

“W-What?” Mccree flushes, furrowed brow. “For what?”

 

“Telling you what happened.” Jack promises, scratching his chest. Mccree realizes he should get him a shirt now that he stopped bleeding and the wounds are finally healing. “I’ll tell you but not now.”

 

Mccree snorts. “Ain’t you leaving without sayin’ goodbye this time?” he doesn’t intend to sound hurt, but he does.

 

A hand reaches his arm, fingertips run down his skin, a feather-light caress that gives him goosebumps and make his eyes sting —he is alive, he is alive, he is alive—; Mccree realizes that’s the first time Jack has touched him in years.  

 

“I won’t.” he breathes.

 

Mccree tries to remember when was the last time, but the only memory that comes to him is the day Reyes dragged him from the streets and brought him to Jack, who offered a warm hand along with a ‘Welcome to Overwatch’.

 

He also recall his eyes, cold and blue like winter.

 

* * *

 

“Where have you been sleeping?”

 

Jack speaks once he enters the room, sitting on the bed, feet touching the floor for the first time after about 15 days staying in bed.

 

“You can move your legs now?” Mccree takes off the serape, kicking off his shoes. He spends most of the day trying to misleading the rest of bounty hunters on the city looking “Soldier 76”, getting rid of all those wanted posters, coming back late at night to make sure no one was following him. “Whaddya mean?”

 

“I’ve been sleeping on your bed, where have you been sleeping?”

 

“Ah.” he looks up, scratches the back of his head, pulls a face. “Outside? on the hallway. I need to watch the door anyway.”

 

Jack fumes. “Sounds uncomfortable.”

 

“It is.” he shrugs “I don’t mind, though.”

 

“The bed is enough for both of us.”

 

The bed is indeed big enough for two people to fit in. Mccree knew it. But when Jack first arrived Mccree spent more time taking care of his wounds or preventing him to choke on his blood than sleeping. He also had to constantly change the sheets to get rid of the stains of blood.

 

“Jack, I don’t mind, seriously—”

 

“If what bothers you is to share the bed I can lea—”

 

“What? No!” Mccree rushes to the bed, grabbing Jack’s shoulders and immediately letting him go, afraid of hurting him “No, no, you stay here.” he holds his hands on the air, not sure where to put them “We can share the goddamn bed, okay? Just don’t—”

 

It feels like a spark when he first hear it, coming from nowhere and lighting up his core. The sound of Jack’s laughter makes his stomach do somersaults and go weak at the knees. It’s warm, inviting, like the hand offered to him several years ago.

 

“That’s better.” Jack says, looking up at him through pale eyelashes, so bushy tiny particles of dust could get stuck there.

 

That night Mccree barely can get some sleep, feeling anxious, self conscious, his breath high pitching everytime Jack moved. Jack sleeps facing the wall and Mccree gives his back to him, curling up as far as possible from his body, being careful not to accidentally touching him.

 

* * *

 

“Did you always look at me like that?”

 

It happens fast, faster than he expected. The night right after they start sharing the bed.

 

Or maybe Jack has been kind enough to delay the situation, maybe that conversation was supposed to take place decades ago. After the meetings, before a mission, or when they randomly crossed each other on the hallway at the base and Mccree’s eyes lingered on him.

 

“What you mean?” Mccree asks, heavy lidded eyes, sweaty hands clenching on the sheets.

 

Jack turns around to face him, looking older and tired, less dreamy than on Mccree’s memories. He got scars across his gentle features and wrinkles on the edges of his eyes, the shadow of the hero he fell in love with. Jack rises a hand, touches his face, cheekbones, traces his nose, lips “You always did, right?”

 

He grabs Jack’s hand, stopping the touches on his face. “What you want me to say? That I wanted to fuck your guts?” Mccree licks his lips, physically struggling with the urge to kiss him  “Yeah, I’ve always wanted, ya know? Mess you up so bad until you beg me to stop.” he looks at Jack’s mouth, takes a sharp inhale and exhales. “I had that damn poster with your face on my room when I first joined Overwatch until Reyes asked me to get rid of it because he was so fucking jealous I thirsted over his man.”

 

Eyes damp, Jack slurs, his voice barely audible ”His?”

 

“I saw you, Jack.” Mccree cuts, taking off the sheets and climbing over Jack, sitting on his hips “Once, when Reyes asked me to brin' him a report. You forgot to lock the door, or maybe Reyes forgot on purpose and wanted me to look, I don’t know.” he laughs, the bitter taste of bile climbing up his throat “You were so loud, didn’t you think someone could hear you?”

 

“Ah.” Jack closes his eyes, sighs loudly, turns his face “I’m sorry you saw that.”

 

Warm big hands caress his pectorals, trace the scars across his torso, the entry of bullets on his sides. The body they couldn’t bury within his grasp.

 

“They called you Reyes’s bitch.”

 

Jack squints his eyes open, feeling Mccree’s hand cupping his face when he bends over. “I know.”

 

“You always protected him.” Mccree continues, his voice soft, fond “Everytime Reyes fucked up somethin’ you took care of it and tried to brush it off. People used to say you did it to get on his pants.” Mccree hides his face on the curvature of his neck, wraps his arms around his torso. “I didn’t like that.”

 

How many times he got involved on a physical fight with someone for bad mouthing Jack? he clearly remember being dragged to Jack’s office itself after hitting a superior. That time the strike commander barely showed any emotion, trying to coax answers from a quiet Mccree who refused to confess why he did it. Jack finally let him go after make him promise he wouldn’t do it again.

 

“What a bad subordinate.” Jack whispers, sinking his fingers on brown locks of hair.

 

“What a bad leader.”

 

Mccree never listened to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tittle comes from "Blue" a country song by LeAnn Rimes.  
> Find me on twitter: twitter.com/possssum  
> Thanks for reading :)


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